Boldest Measures
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: Days after the murder of Jessamine Kaldwin, Treavor Pendleton's life is in tatters: he has no allies in Parliament and the family fortune is rapidly dwindling. He knows that Dunwall is on the brink of collapse, and he figures the only way out is on the end of a gun.


_**A/N: **__Yet more delicious Pendleton angst, this time featuring some suicidal thoughts. Wallace is, as always, to the rescue._

_Also published on my AO3 and Tumblr accounts._

* * *

The duelling pistols are so beautiful that, for a moment, Treavor Pendleton can't fathom them as tools of violence. They have been crafted using resources from across the Empire: Tyvian ore was refined and melted down to make the fine gold inlay along their barrels, and there is Serkonan mother-of-pearl glittering in their handles. The ornate trigger guards were, no doubt, forged from Pendleton silver.

He stares down at them, lying in their box, nestled against dark velvet. He reaches out with a trembling finger and traces one of the ornate curlicues etched into the polished metal. He grips one of the pistols with an uncertain hand and lifts it out of the box; it's heavy, and he has to flick his thin wrist to keep the weapon upright.

From the box, he extracts one bullet – probably Morley-made, shipped in after the Insurrection – and carefully loads the pistol. He slides his thumb over the curved hammer and cocks the pistol, readying it. In the quiet of his bedchamber, the click is ominously loud.

Satisfied, he sets the primed weapon aside and closes the lid of the box, pushing it to the corner of his writing desk. Duelling pistols always come in pairs, but he only needs one.

The Empress has only been dead a week and already Treavor's world is falling apart: he has no allies left in Parliament – they've all turned on him, siding with the Lord Regent; production at the Pendleton mines is in a steady decline; the family coffers are beginning to run dry; the rats are everywhere and quarantine checkpoints are making it harder and harder to travel; the other Isles have set up a blockade, sealing them in like a bandage over a festering wound.

It's only a matter of time before Dunwall implodes, and he doesn't want to be around when it happens.

He sighs and grabs a stack of envelopes from one of the narrow wooden slots built into his desk. They're letters of varying importance. The first one is addressed to Wallace; it's a thick envelope because Treavor has a lot to say to the manservant. The next few envelopes are just business: his will (his portion of the family fortune isn't what it used to be, but he has to leave it to the twins all the same); instructions for his funeral, including a list of those who should be in attendance _and_ details of which urn he wants his ashes interred in; he's got stocks in various businesses – metalworks and textiles, slaughterhouses, oil refineries, imports and exports, his attempts to turn the impending financial ruin of the Pendleton name around – and the details thereof need to be passed onto the twins too, he supposes.

The last three envelopes are addressed to Custis, Morgan, and Waverly Boyle, though he imagines that they'll just shred his letters and toss the scraps into the fireplace. The thought makes him scowl, but there's nothing he can do if they choose to ignore him.

He squares-off the edges of the stack of envelopes and sets them neatly in the corner of his desk, next to the wooden box with the duelling pistols.

Everything is in order, he supposes, and he doesn't want to put this off.

He reaches for his glass of wine. It's imported, the last of its kind in the city. Expensive. But what's the point in saving it? What better time to drink it than now? He drains his glass with a languid tip of his head and smacks his lips in satisfaction. The wine curls, warm and sweet, in his stomach.

He thinks back to the last girl he fucked. Some ex-maid from one of the noble houses. When rumors of plague swept through the neighbourhood, she'd been kicked out and nobody else would hire her. She ended up at the Golden Cat, a pretty thing with soft, soft hair. He fucked her and curled up in the bed with her; she talked about her work as a maid – she was, he noted, very well-spoken, and if he had any plans to stay and wait out the chaos of the city, he might have offered her a job at Pendleton Hall. She was useless as a whore, fumbling and inexperienced, but he didn't mind.

After he dressed and smoothed his hair, he emptied his coin pouch into her hand. When she protested, trying to give him back the substantial sum of money, he simply said, "I won't be needing it."

A faint smile curls his lips.

He begins to undo his necktie and opens the collar of his shirt; he unbuttons his waistcoat and shrugs out of it. He doesn't want his clothes _too_ badly ruined.

His hand shakes as he lifts the pistol, thumb sliding over the hammer to ensure it's primed. He slots the muzzle against his temple, but the stance is awkward. He shifts in his chair, trying to get comfortable, and presses the maw of the pistol under his chin, against the soft flesh beneath his tongue.

He didn't realize how _large_ and _cold_ the muzzle was until now. The thing is sure to blow his head off. His eyes dart to the stack of envelopes and he half-considers writing a post script on the bottom of Wallace's letter – _sorry about the mess_.

He imagines blood and brain matter and shards of bone spraying against the ceiling, over the drapes, the window, his four-poster bed…

Suddenly his hand is clammy, his index finger slipping against the trigger.

He clenches his jaw and tries to swallow, but the pressure of the pistol against his tongue, pressing into the top of his throat, is too much. His pulse twitches, rapidly, frantically, against the cold metal. As though it might push the muzzle away, as though making a desperate scramble for life.

He closes his eyes and bites down on a dry-sob that rushes out of his chest in an involuntary spasm.

A bitter curse hisses out from behind clenched teeth. He's _terrified_. His limbs are trembling; his heart is pounding furiously inside his chest; he feels faint and nauseous.

And, as ridiculous as it is, he doesn't want to die _in pain_.

He sets the pistol down on the desk and goes to his bedside table in search of a tincture of laudanum. It's mixed with spirits and the smell of it, sharp and bittersweet, isn't reassuring in the least. He empties the vial into his glass, not really caring how the dregs of wine will taint the concoction.

He drinks it too fast, and the rush of giddiness and weightlessness is violent in its intensity. He laughs, breathlessly, and barely finds the desk to set the glass down. When he settles in his chair once more, he's struck by how _beautiful_ everything looks, bathed in the dim light of his lanterns.

It's late, near midnight. He thinks, _Tomorrow I won't even wake up_.

The trembling of his limbs has stopped, but now everything is weak and limp. He curls his fingers around the grip of the pistol, finds the trigger, and angles the muzzle beneath his jaw once more. He presses just a little too hard and makes an indignant choking noise.

Then he laughs.

Suddenly, his arm is falling – numb – and he has to use _both_ hands to hold the gun under his chin. He curls one hand over the other and closes his eyes. Everything spins, darkly and dangerously, and it's not until his head hits the desk that he realizes he can't stay upright.

Warm, soothing fingers of sleep tug at him. His mistake, he now realizes, was the excess of wine combined with the opiate. He didn't think it would take effect so quickly, affect him so badly.

Distantly, he wishes he'd just pushed through the fear and nausea and pulled the trigger when he was more in control of himself. Now, he's just a mess slumped forward at his desk, fumbling and failing to commit suicide.

He turns his head, ear to the fine Pandyssian wood, and tries to press the pistol against his forehead, but his arm will not obey. The gun is too heavy to lift. He's rapidly fading into unconsciousness. Everything is numb and black and calm. He lifts his head, lets it fall onto the desk, and gives up with a strangled huff.

* * *

Wallace notices faint yellow lantern light spilling out from beneath his master's door, and he decides to ask if Lord Pendleton needs help preparing for bed. He knocks once and announces himself.

There is no response.

He knocks again, and then gently nudges the door open.

He sees Treavor slumped forward at his desk. And then he sees the pistol clasped loosely in his pale hand.

His heart seizes and all he can do is choke out a wordless cry.

He didn't hear the shot, _he didn't hear the shot_…

He rushes to his master's side. He can see no blood. He touches the pistol, which is cold, and lifts it to his nose, but there is no tell-tale acrid tang of the powder charge. He places a hand on Treavor's shoulder; he is warm and breathing, slowly and deeply. His mouth hangs open and there is a light sheen of drool streaked from the corner of his lips.

There is an empty glass on the desk and when the manservant swirls a finger around the bottom, collecting dregs on his fingertip to taste, he recognizes the tincture his master often needs when he is particularly ill and can't sleep.

_He isn't dead. He didn't kill himself. He just knocked himself out._

Wallace closes his eyes against the hot sting of tears.

He gently takes the pistol, uncocks it, unloads it, and returns it to its box. This he tucks securely under his arm. Then he spies the stack of envelopes. He examines each one, reading his master's elegant, practiced hand. He slips them into his pocket. Something inside him twists and crumples as he realizes that Treavor had everything – every fine detail – planned.

And – what? Was he supposed to come upstairs in the morning and discover his master's corpse? Was he supposed to see the blood, and what was left of Treavor's head, and suddenly shift his duties from _what will Lord Pendleton wear today? _to _I will need to call the undertakers_?

The thought that Treavor would be so unthinking and so selfish makes Wallace mad –_furious _and _disappointed _– but he quickly checks himself.

He decides against moving his master to the bed, and he slips out of the room with a lingering backward glance at Treavor's limp form.

* * *

In the morning, Treavor wakes – and this in and of itself is not what he wants. He wasn't _supposed_ to wake up. He made plans to kill himself–

He blinks, blearily. There is a bitter taste in his mouth and his head hurts from where it thumped against the desk. When he manages to sit up, he sees that the duelling pistols and the stack of envelopes are gone.

He frowns.

And then he hears a knock at the door and Wallace enters, bearing a tray of coffee.

"Good morning, m'lord," Wallace says with a smooth incline of his head. He refuses to look at Treavor and busies himself pouring out a large cupful of hot, strong-smelling coffee.

Treavor feels the color drain from his face.

_Wallace knows. Wallace was the one to take the guns and the letters away._

He whimpers and reaches for the manservant's wrist. "I- last night–" he mumbles, tongue thick and dry in his mouth.

But Wallace interrupts: "It does not warrant speaking about, m'lord," he says, and his voice is low and flat.

Treavor can feel tears of shame and hurt pricking at his eyes. He has to look away. Through the window, the day is clear and bright.

"Did you read the letters?" he asks, slowly, breath catching in his throat.

"No, m'lord. I didn't. I burned them in one of the downstairs fireplaces." Wallace gently slides a cup of coffee towards Treavor. "I didn't _want_ to read them. It would have validated your actions- well, _attempted_ actions." It's hard to tell, but the manservant's tone is admonishing. Unimpressed.

"I'm sorry, Wallace," he whispers, bowing his head. "I'm so _weak_. And scared."

Wallace places a hand on Treavor's shoulder. "I know you're sorry," he says, brow creasing with concern. "And it's alright to be scared, m'lord. I'm scared too."

Treavor nods, weakly. He doesn't know what to say to that. The admission is strange, coming from the manservant. He always thought Wallace was invincible. Now, he realizes that Wallace needs him just as much as he needs Wallace.

He sips at his coffee. "Thank you," he murmurs.

Wallace inclines his head. "You're very welcome, m'lord," he replies.

They don't speak about it after that, and Treavor gets rid of the duelling pistols.


End file.
